The Yule Ball
by devotedtodreams
Summary: At the ball, the Christmas Spirit seems to be everywhere. But Melanie wishes to bring it to the only one who isn't affected by it...


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the original characters from HP - they belong to J.K.Rowling. I don't make any money with this. The rights to any songs mentioned or hinted in this story belong to whoever owns them.

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A strict tradition was held concerning the opening act of the Yule Ball; a representative couple from each house of Hogwarts performed the first few dancing steps before the eyes of all before the other students and the staff joined in too. It was a magical event: magnificent icicles hung from the ceiling, snowflakes tumbled from the enchanted ceiling and impressive ice sculptures decorated the hall. The many Christmas trees seemed greener than ever and their stars shone brighter than in other years. Dishes with sweets and home-made cookies were scattered throughout the hall, and next to them there always were fancy glasses filled with either a warming drink or wine. It was the perfect event for the Christmas Spirit.

After the representatives had opened the dance to the others, it was time to join them on the dance floor. Some people just still stood there, clapping to the rhythm, watching the dancers with smiling, merry faces; others whirled their partners around as they too danced to the music. Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, led Minerva McGonagall onto the floor, under much applause of the students. Hagrid teamed up with Madam Maxima, who had come to visit him. It seemed as though everyone had found a suitable dance partner and was celebrating the feast of love and family.

No, not quite _everyone_ was celebrating enthusiastically. While her dancing partner gracefully turned her around as she danced lightly over the blank floor, she noticed him standing there. Sure, she knew him as her teacher and all… and yet she felt as if she were looking at him in a new light tonight. He was the only teacher who still wore his usual colour: the blackest black that existed. Nevertheless, he had swapped his usually billowing robes for a classy, simple suit. His face had a complete lack of expression. Perhaps that was why he appeared much older than he was: without the slightest sign of emotions in his face, each line that time had carved into it was more significant. His cold, black eyes aimlessly travelled around the room, never lighting up for any reason. In an almost bored way, he listlessly clapped his hands to the rhythm as all the others did who weren't dancing. He hadn't asked to dance. He knew of no one he'd like to ask. It was a rather odd sight that stood out from all the happy faces all around; his dark, brooding self in front of the glamorous Christmas trees, no spark of the Christmas Spirit enlightening his mood. From the first moment on that she saw him that way, she pitied him and was drawn to him.

"Another dance later on, Mel?"

"Maybe, Roger. I'll go get some cookies. You can dance with someone else until I'm back."

"Gotcha. Thanks, by the way."

"No problem." She turned on her heel and wove her way between the dancing couples to the long tables rowed up in front of the Christmas tree. Deliberately, she approached it directly next to him. He didn't seem to notice her. While she busied herself with the cookies (not really feeling hungry at all), she suddenly asked: "Isn't this all so beautiful, sir?"

He stiffened and halfway turned around to her. She had barely turned her head and was looking at him, only one of her blue eyes visible. "Indeed," he finally said. He sounded very sarcastic – he was highly notorious for his sarcasm.

Melanie smiled to herself. She knew exactly what she now wanted to aim for. Without another word to him (he didn't bother anyway), she aimlessly grabbed a cookie and swept off again, the lacy ends of her blue silk robe fluttering around her as if having a life of their own. She headed for the one person she dared to talk to right now: the Headmaster.

He had just finished his dance with Professor McGonagall, and they were quietly talking about how successful this event was once more. Only once every four years it took place, but it had never been criticized. Professor Dumbledore, a very good-hearted, wise wizard, positively beamed at the sight of so many happy people. When he saw a student hurrying towards him, he smiled honestly at her and said friendly: "Good evening, Miss Whitmore. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Of course, Professor Dumbledore, sir," she answered, bowing to him, "In fact, I don't think anybody isn't enjoying it. Spare one," she added.

He smiled with twinkling blue eyes. "I'm sure you mean Severus."

"You _know_, sir?" she asked, surprised a bit.

"Of course. I've known him for many years now, Miss Whitmore, and I know quite a few of his habits. Severus has never really put up with Christmas celebrations."

"Why, sir?"

"I'm afraid that is restricted information. Surely you respect Severus' request that I keep that to myself?"

"Of course, sir," she said hastily, "I was just thinking… you know… maybe he'd just need to be given a chance to discover the happiness and beauty of a ball like this one."

"Well-spoken, Miss Whitmore. And I assume that you have something on your mind?"

"Yes" she said, shuffling her feet a bit.

"Would you like to tell me?"

"I'd be obliged to." When he bent down a bit, she whispered into his ear what she had planned.

He smiled. "Very well. I can't guarantee it will work, but you can try. Go ask him. If he says no, just tell him _this_." Now _he_ whispered something into _her_ ear.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, sir," she said gratefully and bowed again.

"No need to be all that modest, Miss Whitmore. Run along now and try what you've planned."

She nodded and disappeared into the flurry of whirling robes again. Professor Dumbledore watched her go with an amused expression. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was suspicious on how her colleague would react…

Once more, she casually approached the Great Christmas Tree. This time, though, she walked directly up to him. As he looked irritably at her, she indicated a curtsey, then asked: "Sir, would you allow me the next dance?"

"I am in no mood to dance," he replied coldly.

"Even if you might grant me a chance to try and persuade you?" she begged.

"I doubt you could."

"I think I _can_, though. There's something I am to tell you: a debt is yet to be paid, so accept to dance with this fair maid."

When she said this, his ice-cold glance immediately fell upon Dumbledore. The old man was stroking his long silvery beard and humming along with the music. Being a very intelligent man, the dark teacher quickly added two and two. He pursed his lips to a thin line of displeasure and narrowed his eyes. Of course, it was another cryptic message again. He frowned a bit. But no matter how displeased he was, he knew that Dumbledore was right – and meanwhile he had reached a point at which he would do about _any_thing so the old man would forget that little debt. Having reached this conclusion, he reluctantly held out his hand without a single word.

Melanie didn't mind. She knew the professor was usually silent and didn't at all intend to push him. Hoping she was doing everything right, she took his hand, and side by side they walked out onto the dance floor. Students all around stared open-mouthed and bug-eyed at them. The man, Severus Snape, was glaring darkly at those who happened to meet his eyes while Melanie ignored them all together.

When they had reached a suitable spot and stopped, a nice Christmas Waltz was played. She was secretly a bit surprised how he knew exactly how to lead her. And he danced well indeed; not at all like everyone had expected him to. Dumbledore, who was watching them from a distance, guessed that they were easily one of the most graceful couples on the floor. The dancing ordeal itself was a bit strange (to Melanie): although it was a passionate melody, Snape's face still lacked all joy, especially his eyes were as cold as usual. Even his hands felt cold. But despite those facts, she couldn't take her eyes off him. She was full of pity for him (how could someone not enjoy Christmas?), and at the same time she was facing something she had kept to herself for quite a while: she admired him in some way. How did he manage to be so distant, cold and brooding all the time? She knew nobody who had seen him different before (except perhaps Dumbledore, to whom Snape publicly paid his respect). Before she knew it, she was even softly humming the melody as they danced in gracious circles, every step being perfectly coordinated.

"Stop singing, Miss…" He had started to tell her off, but he silenced when he didn't remember her name.

"Melanie Whitmore," she helped him out.

He nodded and carried on straight away: "Stop singing that, Miss Whitmore."

"Why, sir?"

"Because I don't like that melody, maybe?" His voice was drenched with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, sir," she apologized, resisting the urge to smile to herself.

"Forget it," he replied gruffly.

Melanie just raised her eyebrows shortly. Then she tried to focus on being as nice as can be so one would enjoy her company. She imagined warmth flowing from her joyful soul into her very fingertips. She was someone who was known for her strong imagination, and something happened, indeed: although he would never have admitted that by free will, Snape didn't consider the momentary situation all that bad anymore. Miss Whitmore was indeed very polite; that was a sign that she respected his authority, and that was very important to him. But something had changed about her. For some strange reason, she seemed to be more graceful than ever. And her hands suddenly felt so warm… even though they were only laying lightly on his palms, their full warmth streamed into his skin. Some trace of his abrupt surprise must have shown on his face, for she suddenly asked:

"Sir? Is something wrong?"

He shook his head as if to get rid of a pesky fly. "It's nothing."

"Oh." She feared that she had messed up. The song ended at that moment, and she timidly said: "Thank you, sir." She was about to let go of his hand and had already turned away when she felt him get a firm grip on her.

"No."

That one word caused her to look back, her eyes wide. She looked afraid, as if she had done something wrong and had been caught red-handed.

"What, sir?" she asked faintly.

"This might sound strange to you, Miss Whitmore… but perhaps this hasn't been the last dance of tonight."

She gawked shortly, then she blushed a bit and asked with a stammer: "Then… maybe you'd grant me another, sir?"

He listened. Another Christmas tune. So far, they all sounded the same… "Yes, I guess so."

Her voice made a funny squeak when she inhaled. They rejoined their hands and danced to yet another tune. Students started to stare again. But this time even Snape didn't pay much attention to them. He found himself constantly drawn back to that strange way her eyes sparkled as she looked at him. He sensed that she was completely filled with the Christmas Spirit… was _this_ what happened to one if he just let it happen? He could only wonder.

Just when he thought it really wasn't all that bad, a new song came up, "Mistletoe and Wine". It was a cross between a Christmas and a love song. From the first few notes on, Melanie cast him a reassuring look. She didn't want to force him to do something he didn't want to. Silently, she was asking him whether it was over. He told her his decision by leading her more slowly, like an adaptation to the music. She felt all warm inside when he did that. The atmosphere softened with the voice and the words of the singer. At one point, Melanie felt something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up: one of Snape's hands, which had rested itself on her back, was ever so slightly pushing her closer. She obeyed the command and stepped closer. No matter how close they now were, not a single step was misguided. His black eyes stared down past his slightly hooked nose into her blue ones. She looked as if she were enchanted. Suddenly she blinked. A drop of sweat had run into her eye.

"Professor, I should go outside to cool off a bit. Thank you very much, sir," she whispered. She let go of his hands and departed hastily. Being cooped up in any room made her break into a sweating fit after a while… and she had also felt a weird desire to do something she never would've guessed she'd want to do and now wanted to flee from it…

Snape stared after her. From one second to the next, he felt lost in the midst of all the dancers. Resuming his usual dismissive look, he casually looked around. Only a few people were now looking at him. His gaze sought out the Headmaster in particular. The old wizard was talking with the two half-giants and Minerva McGonagall. Snape then shrank back into the shadows, something he also could do exceptionally well, and once he had melted with them, he directed his steps to the outdoors, where it had begun to snow lightly.

Melanie stood in the middle of the courtyard. Although it was winter, she wasn't cold; at least not yet. Joyfully she watched the snowflakes dance around her, melting when they touched her warm skin. Some even stuck to her eyelashes. She looked at the heavens and smiled while she remembered the dances she had shared with her teacher. For a fleeting moment, she had felt as if they weren't what they were, but equals. However, that idea was too far-fetched to possibly be true…

"Miss Whitmore!" a voice exclaimed from behind her.

She whirled around. Professor Snape stood there, his darkness a pure contrast to the whiteness dancing all around them. "What are you doing out here?"

"I had to cool myself off, sir. I get hot quickly when I'm in such a crowd," she explained politely.

"So you're aiming to catch a cold?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, sir. Actually, I'm quite resistant to catching colds," she answered honestly.

"Foolish girl!" he muttered.

"To be completely honest, there's another reason I chose to come out here, sir. I love it when it snows all around me. It just makes me happy."

He rolled his eyes exasperatedly, then stepped up to her, reaching for her arm. She knew what he was about to do, so she quickly asked:

"Isn't it my liberty to stand out here, sir?"

He halted in the middle of a movement, then answered stiffly: "Of course, Miss Whitmore."

She smiled sweetly at him. Then she took his hand and gently squeezed it. "Merry Christmas, sir."

He had never heard this from a student before and was therefore struck by surprise. Then his own actions almost went too quick for him: he now held her hand in return and gently motioned for her to step up to him. Once she was where he wanted her, he swiftly kissed her. Not on the cheek, but right on those rosy lips. He felt her kiss back almost instantly. When they parted, she suddenly could see behind the coldness of his black eyes: she saw loneliness, despair and longing. It was then that she realized what situation she was really in, so she softly said:

"I must go now, sir."

"Don't, Miss Whitmore." There was an ever-so-faint undertone of begging in his deep voice.

"We both know I'm not what you need," she whispered, forgetting the form of politeness.

"Be as it may, I still want you to stay."

"This is a doomed situation."

"I don't care."

Before either could stop it, they had kissed again, this time with more desperate passion. Melanie was close to tears when they parted again.

"Please, sir, forgive me! I don't know what's gotten into me!"

"No, it is _I_ who should beg for forgiveness. It is I who has brought you in this situation," he told her.

"But I don't regret it," she said with a sad smile.

"Neither do I."

Fiercely, they embraced each other. Only now did Melanie feel how cold it truly was around them. His black clothes gave off some the heat they had stored and warmed her. She barely reached his chin, and so she resided to pressing herself against his chest. Through his clothes she felt the fast beating of his heart, and she doubted hers was different. She felt his hand claw itself into her hair while he still held her more tightly. It was if he was desperately searching for something to hold onto before falling into the nothingness.

"Isn't this all so beautiful, sir?" she suddenly asked, repeating the first words she had spoken to him that evening.

"Yes, it is" he replied, and this time he really meant it.

"I'm glad you seem to enjoy this evening more than you appeared to, sir."

"It's all thanks to you, Miss Whitmore."

"You know that this will never repeat itself again, don't you, sir?" she asked. It pained her to think of that, but she knew it was nothing else but the pure truth.

"Yes, I do. But I'll enjoy it while I can."

"Me too."

They hugged each other anew, then just stood motionlessly there as the snowflakes danced from the dark clouds above, their white crystal forms coating their hair as time passed by.


End file.
